


*Your Fan Art Here*

by ghuune



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Cockles, Dreams, Fan Art, Flirting, M/M, Masturbation, Texting, UST, tinhat!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 18:49:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6126634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghuune/pseuds/ghuune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know you drew some crappy fan art. We all did. It's part of life. And in 2009, Jensen might have used some of it to flirt with Misha.</p>
            </blockquote>





	*Your Fan Art Here*

**Author's Note:**

> Huh. I end up having to roast myself. It's where the story took me. *snort* Well, fine, so be it. I mention the goss, infamous for tinhatting J2, within my Cockles tinhat fic. I can't even pretend to defend myself. It is what it is.

I. JANUARY 16th, 2009: FILMING “ON THE HEAD OF A PIN”  
The phone vibrated against his thigh, breaking his concentration. Castiel evaporated. Misha exhaled and shook his head, smiling.

Robert Wisdom, the other actor in the scene, spun away laughing as the director said over the intercom, “Still rolling, guys.”

“Can we take a few minutes?” Misha asked. 

“Get the scene done, you can take as many as you want.”

Tool. 

Misha boxed his irritation and sucked in a breath, resuming his character. The world was different through Castiel's eyes: he looked into things, not at them. Colors flattened; the depth of field increased. Misha slumped into Cas's head-down posture, forgot about his phone and its message. Cas didn't receive texts. Cas received revelations.

The scene went off without a hitch, Uriel and Castiel, two badass motherfuckers, exchanging dire threats. Maybe it was because Wisdom knew he wanted a break, but he locked into the scene, left Misha scrambling to keep up. But then, Misha always felt like he was scrambling. 

Go be an actor. It was a whim he'd had, because he didn't have the personality or the patience to grind away at a drudge job for the rest of his life. By some miracle, he'd found work, but he was always waiting for the giant crook to creep in from the side, snag him around the waist and drag him off.

The next scene was a fight scene, and the stunt guys were already lurking around for it, looking ripped and agile and every inch, “Run along, pretty boys, the real men are here to work.” 

Misha blew them a kiss. Uriel's stunt man, Oliver, caught it and smiled.

He smiled back as he took his phone from his pocket. Fucking finally. Something loosened inside him when he saw it wasn't Vicki who'd texted him, so no car accidents or lost passports today. It turned out to be Jensen, which was just. Weird.

That guy was in Los Angeles promoting his movie, “My Bloody Valentine.” He'd crammed all his scenes into four days' of work to free up his Friday. He'd be gone all weekend. 

While Jensen had warmed up to him recently, they weren't at the shoot-me-a-random-text level of friendship. He'd laughed louder and harder at Misha's jokes over the last couple of months, as though some switch had flipped in his brain. It wasn't a bad thing---Misha hadn't been a big fan of Jensen acting like some high school golden boy ignoring the king of the freaks when he passed in the hall---but such an inexplicable change in demeanor made him wary.

Whatever was happening off-camera didn't change Jensen's acting choices on-camera. Soon after Misha joined the cast, Jensen had taken him aside and said---it took him awhile to get through it all, and Misha, disinterested, had only checked in every once in awhile to see where he was in the flow of his thought and summarize what had probably gone before---that the show was genre, and genre television had a long and venerable history of teasing homoerotic tension, so, hey, he was going to be gazing at Misha in a hot sort of way, and it didn't mean a damned thing.

Misha had filed that under _I won't be on this show long, so who gives a fuck,_ and then God decided to troll him, and the showrunners extended his character arc. Which left him in a pretty position. One did not simply ignore the beauty of Jensen Ackles, and that beauty was giving him “wanna fuck?” stares ten hours a day, every day they shot together. That beauty had also said, explicitly, that it didn't mean anything.

Misha's crush was like a dandelion growing snug in the well-groomed lawn of his sanity. It was adorable, and he didn't necessarily want to root it out because it was so damned cute, but he knew if he let it be, soon the whole yard would be yellow. 

And now this. 

With the sinking sensation that he was totally going to regret this, Misha opened the text.

*Artist really captured the essence of ur character.*

Misha squinted at the phone. Jensen had sent him something that could---if one were being charitable---be called a portrait of Castiel. The head was lumpy like a potato, the forehead bulging, the cheekbones curved like a plastic surgery fail. The chin was pointy enough to be used as a stabbing weapon. 

But the true horror of the picture rested in its eyes. They were enormous, laser-lightshow-blue, with lots of little swarming circles inside them. They made the misshapen thing look hungry for his soul.

 _Okay, sweetheart, you want to go, we can go,_ he thought, grinning. 

One quick Google search later, he had the ammunition he needed.

*Only a flesh wound,* he texted, and sent a picture of a disproportionate Dean crawling along on endless triple-jointed daddy long-legs, gouting an anatomically impossible amount of blood, with the added detail that the artist had lovingly rendered the bulge in the tattered jeans while pretty much saying “Fuck it” to any attempt at the face. This agonal, priapic version of Dean, which really ought to be grimacing or glowering, instead wore the vacant, silly smile of a little old lady watching bluebirds.

*You'll think u were looking in a mirror,* Jensen sent back right away, with yet another terrible, distorted version of Castiel attached. This unfortunate creation had its hand beneath its trenchcoat, obviously playing pocket pool, with its too-large head thrown back at such an extreme angle that its neck must be broken, apparently howling up at the sky.

He had a whole folder of these friggin' things, didn't he? Misha laughed out loud at the image of Jensen scouring the Internet for shitty fan art of Cas. Fine, then. Okay. He now knew what he was doing with the down-time between shots for the fight sequence.

*You seem to like this,* Jensen sent later. Their text war was escalating; of that, there was no doubt. Misha was pretty sure he'd sent the first dick, but Jensen had been the one to start in with the real raunch. This one was Cas---well, by coloration, Misha assumed the man standing was meant to be Cas---getting blown by Anna. Misha smirked at the phone. Yeah, his little avatar on the screen did appear to be liking that. His little avatar's penis was also the same size as its arm. 

*Thanks for the compliment*

*How do u walk with that thing*

*The real question is, how do you not pass out when you get hard?* Misha sent a pencil drawing of Dean on a bed, his hand wrapped around his very large, very detailed hard-on. The art was actually passable; his quick search for “big-dicked Dean” hadn't resulted in any truly miserable art.

*Long experience*  
*Long, Hard experience* 

Misha blinked at his screen. Jensen joked with Jared about which of them was bigger, a question Misha was certain they'd already settled between them. Comparing cock size was an age-old male bonding ritual, after all. But this was definitely the first time Jensen talked to _him_ about his dick.

Jensen sent him another picture of Cas, and Misha almost dropped his phone.

It was another porn art, but it was... gorgeous. The artist, with a good eye for anatomy and proportion, had drawn it freehand with pen and ink, resulting in flowing, expressive lines. In this picture, Cas had one hand behind his back, probably fingering his ass, while the other delicately teased a pretty hard-on. His head lolled toward the viewer, his expression both yearning and abandoned to lust, lips slightly parted.

The most important thing, though, and the reason why Misha's hands went numb, was that Cas was naked, and unlike most naked Cas images, there were no wings. 

This could just as easily pass for an erotic image of Misha fucking Collins.

Jensen had this fucking thing on his _phone._

Misha backed into a chair and sat down without looking away from the screen, his mind yammering through a hundred questions. What to do? How to handle this? Did he mean this as a joke? A come-on? Did he think about Misha like this? Did he like this picture? That was the important one. Did he like it, and if he did, how much, and in what way? 

Fuck.

This was---had to be—-a joke. “It doesn't mean a damn thing---” What else was that, but a straight actor setting his queer counterpart on his guard? Misha hadn't gone around handing out pride buttons his first week on set, but he hadn't closeted himself either.

Misha had to revise his opinion of the man: he was actually kind of a genius at messing with people.

Regardless, there was only one true way to handle this. If what Jensen meant to do was fuck with his head, well, he'd just have to fuck back harder.

*You have good taste,* he sent. *What do you think of this one?*

Charcoal, or some computer version of it. Dean in a beat-up armchair, his jeans unbuttoned and unzipped to make room for a surging erection, spreading precum around his head with his thumb while he stared, absorbed, at a magazine. The artist's shading game was on point; Dean's slick head almost seemed to glisten.

*I don't beat off to mags*

Misha's breathing got a little more complicated. His cheeks and ears burned. His dick, happy as always to cause a problem, was causing one, and he flipped the edge of Cas's trench over his lap to conceal it. I don't beat off to mags, he'd said, ignoring the whole “Dean” aspect of things and bringing this out to the real world. To himself. Seriously, what was this?

 _You. Are reading. Too much. Into it,_ Misha told himself. _Stop it._

*U blushing yet?*

Or maybe not. He decided to up the game:

*No. Drooling a little.*

He let Jensen sit with that for a beat _(so there, asshole, see how you like wondering how I'm taking this)_ , then sent the punchline:

*That picture of me was hot as fuck.*

*lol try this one*

The picture loaded. This one, at least, was clearly Cas; the painting had the trench crumpled at his feet, his tie undone, his shirt partiallly unbuttoned. It was an intensely detailed, almost photorealistic rendering of Cas getting a blowjob from Dean, Cas flushed and gasping, Dean putting in some real work, his hand clawed in Cas's slacks.

Jensen texted, *More where that came from* 

Misha felt pain, tasted blood, realized he'd nibbled a neat little scroll of skin off his lower lip. His heart hammered in his chest. He felt it in his groin, blood pumping him hard.

*You know that's not canon,* he typed, his numb fingers fumbling so badly, only autocorrect saved him. *Unlike this.*

If Jensen wanted to ruin his life, two could play at that game. He sent him a colored pencil drawing of Sam and Dean. Again, the image was rendered with love and care, the two brothers entwined, Sam clearly penetrating Dean. Plaid shirts crumpled on the rumpled bed, denim around their ankles.

*Tell me. I'm curious. Accurate?* he shot off before he could think better of it. 

There was a long pause in which Misha imagined Jensen going through his “I'm uncomfortable” dance. It consisted of him shooting his elbows, shrugging his shoulders, and rolling his neck, as though tension were an actual wire running through his upper body he could snap with the proper sequence of movements.

*How should i know? We're brothers.*

Misha raised an eyebrow at his phone screen. That was... a weird response, certainly no knee-jerk defense of heterosexuality, but it didn't mean anything if Jensen were reacting from Dean's perspective. The whole exchange was starting to frustrate him, a clawing, itchy feeling in the center of his brain. 

*So you haven't read the reams of text from women certain you and Jared are reinacting the Kama Sutra in your trailer?*

*You mean the goss*

*I do indeed mean the goss*

That had been a hell of a thing to stumble across. One of the crew had tossed it out to him, just bullshitting at the catering table: “Hey, if you're not topped up on crazy today, you should check this out.” Misha had scrolled the community for half an hour before going for a run to shake off the creeps. Those people knew where Jensen and Jared went for coffee. They knew when they left Vancouver, and on which flight. They had connections, and they were watching.

The whole thing made him feel intensely sorry for the two men, but also happy he wasn't interesting enough for his every move to be catalogued. He never mentioned his discovery to the boys, though. How the hell could he? “Hey guys, keeping track of what your stalkers are saying about you today?”

Deep down, though, that community had planted within him the seed of doubt. The women of the goss had so much information. Was it possible they were right? Watching Jensen and Jared horseplay, the touchy-feely thing they did, the way Jensen whipsawed from open and soft to stern and closed the moment outsiders came to set, he vacillated, explaining things away one day, raising eyebrows at them again the next. He tried so hard to stay away from the gender-policing and queer-erasing concept of “the ping,” but....

Fuck. Sometimes, Jensen pinged like a freaking naval submarine.

So, yes, it was just amazingly awesome to be having this impossibly awkward conversation via text right now, as he sat with his uncomfortable hard-on (which had wilted at the recollection of the possibility that Jared and Jensen were railing and, if so, there was a whole corps of anonymous people keeping tabs on it).

*That place is a pit of vipers,* came Jensen's response. *To hell with them.*

Before Misha could respond, Jensen went on:

*As for all their theories*  
*you gotta understand Jared's girl, Gen, Sandy before her*  
*they went straight guano about em just totally rabid*  
*DEATH THREATS!!! TO THEIR HOUSES!!!*  
*and every time J freaked out cos who wouldn't.*  
*i have a hell of a time calming him down*

Misha thumb was poised to send a response, but his mind was a blank. Fortunately his screen lit up again with words before he could throw himself into a text he'd regret.

*J's straight. That's what they don't get. They demand the right to tell him who he is.*  
*For someone like him, always asking himself that q*  
*(who he is, not if he's straight)*  
*its not right. he can't deal with it. i can't either*  
*So I'd appreciate it if you never brought it up to him OK*

Misha waited, but the deluge of text appeared to have dried up.

*Sure, OK,* he sent. *I haven't before and I won't now. Don't worry.*

*OK*  
*I went off the handle a little there, man.*

It was the closest thing to an apology Misha was going to get out of him, and he knew it. He also knew that Jensen had obliquely answered the most important question.

Jared was straight. Jensen was not.

And that was information Misha could live with.

II. FEBRUARY 11th, 2009  
He didn't see Jensen again for almost a month. He flew back home to LA and kept himself busy in between fits of sulking he didn't want to admit he understood: he was a grown man, for fuck's sakes, not some teenage boy, blue because he missed his crush.

Sometimes he opened the text chat log. Sometimes he read it. Sometimes he looked at the pictures. Sometimes he laughed at it. Most of the time he found himself thumbing the icon and then just as quickly backing out of it. This was the stupidest fucking bullshit he'd ever let himself fall into. Jesus fucking Christ, what did it matter if Jensen was queer? In all likelihood, the man had simply misspoke himself in his rage. Even if he were closeted, that didn't make him at all likely to fall for him. He'd made it clear he considered Misha some kind of cross between a pod person and an X-File.

But when Misha slept, his lecherous and honest mind lit up with dreams of Jensen flowing beneath him, skin spattered gold, back muscles flexing as Misha covered him, arching up to take his kiss. Vicki and the friends in their circle all got a lot of action that month. She went around a secret smile and a glint in her eye, but she didn't ask. She knew Misha would tell her when he was ready.

Shooting began for 4x18. As Misha stepped out of the airport into the steely Vancouver light, squinting around for the car that would drive him to set, he felt as though he weren't stepping off a curb, but off a cliff. His stomach rocketed to the soles of his feet, where he trod upon it with every step. He'd never been so nervous in his entire life.

The boys were throwing a small rubber ball around the set when he arrived. Jared was trying to do some kind of complicated bank shot off the walls; Jensen, trying just as hard to ensure he didn't succeed. Between the two of them, they were doing a damn good job of destroying the art department's work. One of the set dressers was standing off to the side, her expression a mixture of amusement and rage. A production assistant, spying Misha, zoomed off like a dragonfly, presumably fetch someone with authority to settle the boys down.

Misha was careful to think of them that way, as “the boys,” and he was just as careful not to let his gaze rest on Jensen. There was a small blue bottle on the mantle that had, so far, survived their deprivations. He used that as a focus point. See Jensen, think about shoulders, green---quick, where's that bottle? 

He sneered at himself. This was even more pathetic than his projected worst-case scenario. Post-pubertal stress disorder: he was having flashbacks to eighth grade. 

During one of these hey-let's-not-look-at-Jensen-except-oh-hey-seems-we-just-did rounds between Jensen and the bottle, Jensen happened to glance up just as Misha found himself, once again, against his free fucking will, staring at him.

Their eyes met.

The shock of it made Misha raise his chin and swallow. Jensen's eyes widened, but just as swiftly narrowed, his expression darkening as his shoulders rolled. 

“Hey, Misha,” he said, and was his voice rougher than usual? “Welcome back.”

“Misha's back?” Jared pegged the rubber ball at him without warning. Hyperaware to the point where he felt like he'd done a couple of lines, Misha caught it without moving any other part of his body, a feat that made Jared whistle and say, “Nice catch.” 

But it was Jensen's reaction he noticed, the way the corners of his lips turned down, his impressed nod, and he groaned silently at the internal surge of happiness he felt at that response. His soul could be embodied as a man looking out his living room window at a lawn saturated with yellow weeds.


End file.
